It’s a rainy afternoon in Nairobi and I have accompanied a friend to meet a potential client in Westlands.
…you look more charming than me…put on your best suit
Sorry I don’t own a suit
Okay put on your lucky underwear, unless you don’t have that too! Hehe
So I rehearse the only one joke I can relate and I meet my friend at our agreed meeting point. It so happens that our meeting point with the client is a church. While we are being frisked by this talkative guard at the gate I whisper in my friend’s ear “…did I really have to wear my lucky underwear for your baptism?” He calls the client who signals us to walk to him as he is in a sheltered area avoiding any raindrops from the light showers. Nobody likes his money wet…of course unless it is in scotch. He requests us to wait inside the church as he completes something. The church walls speak of affluence but the atmosphere is modest. I look at the pulpit and I can see a Nigerian pastor preaching to people to forego the purchase of new cars to help a needy child in Kakuma or in his hometown in Biafra.
Our client takes us to a different room because it’s not good to discuss business in church. He takes us to the church offices where we demonstrate our product. You will pardon me for using “our” instead of “my partner’s” after all, am the one wearing a lucky underwear. He is pleased with the product so he pulls us from the office to another room. He most probably doesn’t want his colleagues to learn of his endeavors because we are always advised to keep our next moves private to be happy in life. And who doesn’t want to be happy in this Trump era? This time it’s a small room with a paper tag on the door “4-7 YEARS.” The room has a small fan and multiple colored paintings and writings on manila papers similar to those found in kindergartens. I am attracted to one particular manila paper and specifically by the writings on it;
Who wrote the Bible?
Where does God live?
How do we know the Bible is true?
Who created God?
Do God and Jesus cry?
Did God make people in the outer space?
Does God have friends?
I find the questions engaging, we did not question such things in our Sunday school years. These questions appear quite advanced for children who don’t know what corruption is or at least its practical definition. So am thinking they must have a “Sunday school” for adults who are not so innocent and must have questioned the existence of God once or twice but the tag on the door negates my doubts. I want to ask our client what kind of kids they host in this class but he and my partner are talking about the “mode of payment”…definitely not a good time to distract them.
To cut a long story short, my underwear doesn’t fail us and the client agrees to pay a deposit soon and complete the payment in due time.
No Mark…my lucky underwear is not for hire. Buy yours, I could hook you up with Kamau who sells them in all colors. Sadly they have this elastic waistband with “ARSENAL” all round. Such a paradox!
Back in the ranch, rather back in the matatu home…c’mon don’t tell me you all thought the Nigerian pastor drove us to our dwellings…am thinking Do God and Jesus cry? Are they like those macho men who cut trees for timber and drink at their friends’ funerals and would never bat an eye let alone cry? Or are they like Jane and they cry every time a child in Syria becomes a refugee? Or are these just idle ruminations of Sunday school kids in Nigerian pastors churches?
I have this bad habit of asking girls about the last time they cried, how long ago it happened, what was the reason and if the crying helped. On average, most of them usually have cried two weeks before my question and it’s mostly over a campus guy who told her something she didn’t like or he left her for another girl with poorly shaped eyebrows but a bigger posterior. Some say that they cried but only two teardrops rolled from their eyes, one from each eye and she wiped them before they dropped from her face
…so technically I didn’t cry.
That’s like being half pregnant Jane…there’s no such thing.
Just in case you are wondering, my girlfriend’s name is not Jane, neither do I have anything against Janes.
There are those who admit they cried after the death of a character in the book or after Alejandro left Maria in a Mexican soap opera. I never ask this for fun or to boost a deluded male dominance. I am actually a low key feminist who believes the future is female, that we live in a matriarchy that is designed as a patriarchy to please the lads.
I ask this question because I fear for my daughter(s). Yes!!! I dream of having a beautiful daughter, not necessarily a cute one but definitely a beautiful one. I told you in a letter to my daughter that I would call her Daria, not presumably because her mother will be a Muslim or an Arab but because the name fascinates me.
I can’t wait to see Daria in her puberty and adolescence years, it will hurt me that she will cling more to her mother than me but I will be happy that she is becoming a woman. I have learnt from my escapades that we can protect girls from everything else but their hormones. Girls, whether noble, civilized, modest or wealthy will always be victims of the vulnerability of their hearts. I can only hope that if she falls, and she definitely will, she falls for the right man or boy. A boy who doesn’t have a lemon heart but also one that can change a light bulb.
I pray that lady luck smiles on her and she doesn’t have to sleep with big men to get a job, kiss the right asses she may, but never undress for any. I hope she comes home severally every year and she brings me a new cap or shirt and a bottle of my best whisky. That she may grow old in age like her mother and grandmother before her, name her kids after us and place a wreath on our graves every anniversary. That her heart may only know of peace and love. That she may become rich and discipline her kids with a Gucci belt (I love this line).
Now back at the ranch (this time the real ranch), I know I have not written in at least three moons, I know Joe here was counting! Am sorry Joe if they are more than three, drinks on me when the T Bonds mature. Let me tell you another story…no this one does not involve underwear but it starts with one of those high school composition cliche phrases. As the sun burns of the morning mist, I am watching the dew evaporate from my hotel room in the Mara. I am looking out for any rising lions, I want to see if they wake up with a boner too. I am looking for a lioness that is going home with her bowed head as she comes from a one night stand. I am looking for a lion that has caught prey and he’s bringing it home for the lioness that is just waking up…breakfast in bed we call it. But I don’t see any, neither do I see a porcupine enjoying morning glory…I’d really love to see how porcupines mate.
It’s lonely here and no lions have shown up yet maybe it’s true they are the kings of the jungle and they wake up at directors’ hour. So I put on my underwear (yes I was naked this whole time) and khakis and head for the hotel bar (also, sorry I promised there’d be no underwear in this story…Africans don’t know how to keep promises). It’s 6:03 AM and there are hardly any people in the bar except for this yawning bartender and a Caucasian man in a dimly lit corner of the bar. I pull my seat at the counter and ask for a double scotch…the bartender who’s not paying attention says “pardon.” Now who says pardon in 2018? I thought we left that in class 3, when was that 1972? So I repeat “two glasses of goat urine!” Hardly after an hour, my head is very heavy, I must have been served sheep urine. I stagger back to my hotel room, this time I meet with a lion. Just like I promised, this story has a touch of high school composition. Now do I really have to state the obvious? …just as I am about to pick a stone and aim at the lion, my mum knocks on my bedroom door. Wake up Kamwega! It’s time for Sunday school! It is then that I realized that this was just a dream.
Peace and love.